


The Words That I Promise I (Don’t) Mean

by Artemis_Unbound



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Based on a Tumblr Post, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk (kind of?), Feelings, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Geralt is under a truth spell, Happy Ending, I SET OUT TO WRITE PORN AND ENDED UP WITH MUSH, I am not sorry, I hope y'all have good dentists because this is so fluffy it may cause cavaties, I might add porn later, Love Confessions, M/M, Now with a chapter 2!, Rimming, Smut, Sweet Bibbling Jesus Y'all, Truth Spells, and then it became this, excessive use of endearments, full of smut!, idk yet, it started as Jaskier in a silk robe, no actual porn (yet), no beta we die like witchers, overuse of italics probably, softness(TM), this is just a vehicle for dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-04
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25066513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artemis_Unbound/pseuds/Artemis_Unbound
Summary: The Pros of this job:-A suite of rooms at the lord's castle-Fine food, clothing, and wine-A lot of money-That Silk Thing Jaskier is wearingThe Cons:-Fucking witches-Fucking witches and their fucking death curses-Fucking witches and their fucking death truth curses-That Silk Thing Jaskier is wearing, which is driving Geralt mad
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 125
Kudos: 1247
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection, Stories Which Made for a Better Day





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was inspired by a post by @witcher-and-his-bard over on tumblr. They asked for Jaskier in a silk robe and Geralt SUFFERING, and somehow I made it into a truthspell fic also? I don't even know, y'all, I wrote most of this in two hours in a sort of fevered mania while completely ignoring my real book begging me to write another chapter.  
> It ended up being dirty talk (sort of, I guess?) instead of actual sex (sorry) and a shitton of Feelings snuck in because I'm a soft bitch who apparently can't write things without Feelings.

Fucking witches.

Geralt _hated_ fighting _fucking_ witches.

Other monsters, with few exceptions, were straightforward. He tracked them, he found them, he hit them with arrows or swords or his own two hands until they were dead.

But magic made everything more complicated. And witches tended to be smarter than the average drowner.

This one had been terrorizing the local lord and his entire household for weeks now, something to do with love spurned—Geralt had stopped listening at that point. It would make a great ballad, at least. Or so Jaskier claimed.

_At least the bard’s not here_ , he thought absently, dodging yet another sizzling bolt of lightning.

He had tried to reason with the witch. Sometimes it was possible to just talk them into leaving. Jaskier was always impressed when he managed that, since Geralt was, as the bard put it, “usually as eloquent as a particularly loquacious stone wall.”

She threw another spell at him, but she wasn’t exactly Aretuza-trained and she was tiring, getting sloppy. He rocked on his feet, readying to strike.

“Bastard!” she was screaming. “He swore his heart to me! But the moment he learned what I was, he cast me aside.” Geralt could sympathize, really he could, but— “Called me a monster! Well, he got what he wanted, didn’t he?!”

Geralt was fairly sure this was emphatically _not_ what the lord’s son had wanted. “Perhaps driving the entire household half-mad with vivid nightmares and hallucinations is not the best way to prove you aren’t a monster,” he grunted.

She shrieked a wild laugh and he shook his head. It was impossible to reason with the mad ones. “Fool!” she cried.

There was his opening. He ducked forward, rolled around a tree stump, and came up already swinging. His steel sword sank into her chest until it came out the other side, crimson with blood.

Her mouth dropped open in surprise.

She fell, and he caught her, lowering her gently to the ground.

“Bastard Witcher,” she said, voice rattling as blood flooded her lungs. “See how you like it.”

And then her eyes glassed over, and she was gone.

It was quick work to set her lonely cottage in the middle of the clearing on fire, and he stayed to watch it burn, making sure that the flames didn’t leap into the nearby trees.

The sun was low on the horizon by the time he made it back to the lord’s castle, covered in ash and blood.

“Is it done?” the lord asked anxiously, almost the moment he was over the threshold.

“Yes,” Geralt said. He’d offered to bring the lord a trophy, but had been secretly glad when he’d refused. It was one thing to bring back a kikimora head, it was another thing to walk around with a human head in his grip.

The lord wrinkled his nose delicately. “Why on earth do you look as if you rolled in a firepit?”

“Burned her house down,” Geralt explained tersely. “To make sure none of her tools could be used again.”

“Ah,” the lord said. “Well done. You shall have your payment in the morning, and—shall I send a bath to your rooms before the banquet?”

“Yes.”

“Wonderful! Thank you, Witcher,” the lord called in a tremulous voice, but Geralt was already striding away.

He took the stairs two at a time. The smell of smoke had permeated his clothes, his skin, his hair, and so deeply into his nostrils he wondered if he would ever regain his sense of smell. He wanted to sink into a bath and wash away the remnants of this job as soon as possible.

The door to their rooms wasn’t locked when Geralt threw it open. His nose twitched. Apparently, his sense of smell was not dead and gone. The faint whiff of grass and wood oil and just a hint of cedar filled his nose. _Jaskier_.

Geralt barged straight through the small sitting room—he didn’t think he’d ever been offered an entire suite of rooms before, but that was the upside of traveling with a charming bard—and into the bedroom.

He stopped dead.

Jaskier was sitting in an armchair beside the fire, chewing absently on the end of his quill as he did when he was wrestling with tricky lyrics. His hair was still damp from his own bath, a droplet of water sliding along the shell of his ear.

And he was wearing…

Geralt wasn’t sure there was a word for it.

It looked like a robe, yes. But this garment was made of thin, almost sheer, sapphire blue silk, and on second thought maybe it wasn’t merely the robe itself, but the way Jaskier was wearing it that was the problem.

It seemed theoretically possible that the robe could cover the wearer from neck to ankles; the length was certainly there.

But of course, that would have been too easy.

Jaskier had knotted the rope belt about his waist, holding the robe closed there in a mockery of decency. The collar gaped open, falling off his shoulder all the way to his elbow on his left side, revealing the curve of his bicep, the sweep of his collarbone and his fine throat, the dusting of hair curling across his chest. On his right side, the wide sleeve had fallen away from his upraised right hand, leaving his forearm and his bony wrists on display.

And then, below the waist…Geralt nearly groaned.

Jaskier sat with his legs crossed, almost primly, except that it parted the folds of the robe, showing off a wide slice of his pale thigh, the dark hair there, and one of his strong, rounded calves, muscular from years walking with Geralt. Even his foot peeked out beneath the drape of silk, his toes long, his arches high.

It was official.

The bard was trying to kill him.

Was it even legal for anyone to look so unbelievably fuckable?

Geralt gritted his teeth.

If it wasn’t, Jaskier had racked up a fortune’s worth in fines over the years, because he was unequivocally the most beautiful man Geralt had ever met. The fucking silk robe, well. That was just the gods having a laugh at the expense of Geralt’s willpower.

Jaskier looked up the moment Geralt stepped into the room, a smile already blooming on his lips. The bright blue of the robe made Jaskier’s eyes even more brilliant than they usually were. _Fuck_.

“Geralt!” The bard got to his feet, and Geralt couldn’t decide if it was a mercy or a tragedy that the folds of the robe fell closed around his legs. He tossed his quill aside and came right up to the Witcher, fearless as always.

Geralt took a deep breath, trying to resist the urge to let his eyes fall closed and lose himself in that warm scent.

“Jaskier,” he forced out.

The bard tsked between his teeth, surveying the mess that was Geralt’s person. “It’s never clean with you, is it?” he bemoaned for the thousandth time, already reaching for the straps of the armor. He removed it with practiced hands, his attention only wavering when he turned to thank the serving maids who trooped in with buckets of steaming water and filled the tub. When they were gone, he returned his focus to disrobing his Witcher. Geralt stared at a place on the wall over Jaskier’s shoulder, trying not to think about those hands so close to his skin.

_He doesn’t want you_ , he reminded himself sternly. _A pretty bard doesn’t want a Witcher._

“Well, let’s get you out of these filthy clothes and into that bath,” Jaskier said cheerfully. “I’ll send these down to be cleaned straightaway. You won’t need them anyway. I’ve laid out your good clothes for the banquet tonight, and look!” The bard spread his arms, the silk fluttering over him like it wanted to caress his skin as badly as Geralt did. Geralt cursed in his mind, picturing the inside of a selkiemore with gruesome detail.

“Lord Richard has provided us with these lovely robes! Don’t you like it?”

“Yes.” The word popped out of Geralt’s mouth entirely without his consent. He blinked.

“The silk is imported from—I’m sorry, what?” Jaskier’s eyes had gone very round.

“I said I like it.” Geralt’s lust seemed to have run away with his mouth. Before he could say anything else, he hastily stripped off his boots and trousers and plunged into the bath.

“Well.” Jaskier cleared his throat, and Geralt wondered if he could set himself on fire using Igni. “Thank you, Geralt,” the bard said. “I’m sure you’ll like yours, as well. It is ever so comfortable.”

“Hmm.”

Jaskier sighed minutely and crossed over to the bathtub. “Blood and soot in your hair,” he murmured, and Geralt didn’t have to look to see the crease between his eyebrows. “Let me help with that.”

And because Geralt was weak, he gave an agreeing sort of hum, as he always did when Jaskier offered to help him wash. He ducked his head under the water, scolding himself sternly and to no avail, as usual.

“It would seem the fight wasn’t too taxing this time, based on the state of your clothes,” Jaskier said, soaping up his hands and burying them in Geralt’s white locks. Geralt let his eyes close in bliss as those clever fingers massaged his scalp and ran through his hair. “No guts or anything. Still, I know how much you hate fighting anything human. I suppose you burned her house, and that’s why you smell like a Belleteyn festival.”

Geralt hummed again, letting himself drift along on the endless chatter Jaskier provided without really absorbing any of it. His voice was so soothing and familiar, and Geralt could let it carry him along into an almost meditative state.

When Jaskier pronounced his hair clean, Geralt reluctantly straightened up to scrub the rest of his body, turning the bathwater a murky gray with the ashes, and then stood.

He dried himself off with the towel Jaskier passed him, and when the bard handed him a long black length of silk, he only hesitated a moment before pulling it on with a roll of his eyes.

Jaskier’s cheeks were slightly pink from sitting over the heat of the bathwater for so long, but the color always looked so good on him.

“Well,” Jaskier said, biting his lip absently. His eyes darted to Geralt and then skittered away again. He waved a careless hand toward the bed. “Your nice clothes are there. I’m going to dress and head down now, since I’ve promised to provide a bit of entertainment, but you take your time. Well, not too much, since you’re the guest of honor but—you know.”

Jaskier popped back into his clothes so quickly that Geralt was left blinking and wondering if perhaps the bard had some latent magic of his own. Less hurriedly, he donned the ‘party clothes’ Jaskier had bought for him long ago, and made his way down to the banquet.

He hated these kinds of affairs. The food was good, the liquor was better, but the company was invariably dreadful. Humans at every level of society could manage to commit horrific deeds, but only nobles could manage to be so incredibly and inescapably boring.

As soon as the lord was done with his fumbling speech thanking Geralt for his efforts, the Witcher tucked himself into the most remote corner he could find and only emerged when his cup ran dry.

Several of the ladies and lordlings in attendance found the courage to sidle up to him, but all went slinking away with their tails between their legs when they found that the Witcher didn’t smile and communicated largely in grunts.

After the brave ones had made their advances, Geralt was left to his own devices. His devices, as always at such events, were to drink good Redanian wine and listen to Jaskier sing.

The upside of these parties was that, with such spacious venues, Geralt didn’t have to pretend to be looking at his bowl of stew or his table. He could lean up against a pillar and watch his bard prance around the room without Jaskier ever even noticing.

Not to mention how kind the acoustics of the room were to Jaskier’s already-spectacular voice. The simple fact was that rowdy, crowded inns didn’t do the bard any favors. Sometimes, Geralt took jobs from the moneyed set not merely to indulge in Jaskier’s desire for material comforts, but to hear him sing in a place designed for music.

The banquet passed in a relatively inoffensive haze of Jaskier’s voice washing over him, and then it was over, and he was following Jaskier back up to their room, listening with half an ear to his chattering.

They had returned to the bedroom, and Jaskier slipped out of his clothes and back into that _fucking robe_ because he lived to torture Geralt. He was tying the belt and Geralt almost missed it when he said, “I just love that banquet hall! It made my voice sound incredible, don’t you think?”

“The room helped, but your voice always sounds incredible.”

Jaskier froze in the act of setting his lute in its case, and then lifted his head to stare at Geralt. Geralt couldn’t blame him. He wanted to stare at himself. He _really_ hadn’t meant to say that.

Jaskier let out a little laugh. “How much wine did you have?” he asked teasingly.

“Not that much,” Geralt said. “I’m not drunk. Not even tipsy.”

It was, regrettably, the truth. He had only had four glasses, and the last one was nearly an hour ago.

“But you always say you hate my singing…right?”

Geralt tried to bite down on the words, but they came anyway, against his will.

“I lied.”

“What?” Jaskier straightened up, incredulity written into every line of his face.

“I lied,” Geralt said, fists clenching as he tried in vain to tamp down on the flow of words. “I don’t hate your singing. I love it. I think your voice is the most beautiful sound in the world. I wish I could listen to it all the time, every day. I’ve wondered if you had siren blood in you, but I’ve checked and you don’t. It’s just you.”

Jaskier’s jaw was hanging open. “But—But—” he stammered. “Then why do you tell me to shut up so much?”

“Can’t let you think I like it,” Geralt said. “Sometimes because I need to listen for danger. Sometimes it’s just distracting.”

“What do you mean?”

“When you’re talking or singing, all I want to do is close my eyes and listen,” Geralt told him, horror roiling in his stomach. What was he saying? Well, no, he knew what he was saying, he just didn’t know _why_. “It makes me weak. Makes me less focused.”

There was a long moment of silence where they just stared at each other, Geralt in mute terror and Jaskier in growing concern.

“Geralt,” he finally said, very slowly and carefully. “What is—I think there’s something wrong with you.”

Geralt huffed out a breath. “I think the witch might have hit me with a truth curse,” he growled. “She was talking about how when she told her lover the truth, he rejected her. And then when she died, she said, _see how you like it_.”

“You can’t lie?”

“Apparently not.”

“Wait, so, earlier, when I asked if you liked my robe, you really did? You really do?” Jaskier demanded, spreading his arms and Geralt wanted to smack the back of his head. That was his first thought, _really_? And also, did he have to _do that_? It was revealing parts of his chest that made it difficult for Geralt to think clearly.

Still, he was compelled to answer. “A person would have to be fucking blind not to like you in that robe, Jaskier.” _Oh, sweet Melitele, no_.

Jaskier’s cheeks flushed. He abandoned his lute entirely, taking a tentative step closer to Geralt.

“What do you mean?” he whispered.

Geralt snarled a little in the attempt to stay quiet, but it was impossible.

“I mean,” he growled, stalking closer to the bard until he could see his pupils dilate in those blue, blue eyes. “That you look like temptation itself, even more than you usually do, which is saying a lot, Jaskier, because you’re always fucking tempting. You test my self-control every fucking day, and then I come in to find you wrapped up in blue silk that’s falling off you fucking strategically, like you’re posing for a portrait. Like the Continent’s finest whore, waiting on her next client. Like you’re waiting on _me_ to come in and see you like that and—and—” Geralt wrestled against his tongue.

Jaskier’s tongue darted out to wet his lips. “And?” he breathed.

“And take you right here!” Geralt half-roared. “Take your mouth with my tongue until your lips were swollen and sore. Bite your throat until everyone who looks at you for the next week will know you’re mine. Kiss my way down your chest until the silk stops me and I have to suck your cock _through_ it, desperate for the taste of you, until you’re rutting up into my mouth.”

Jaskier’s breath hitched, but Geralt couldn’t stop.

“Run my hands up your legs and dig my fingers into your thighs until you bruise. Spread you out on that chair until I can get at your hole and fuck you right there, until you scream my name, with that silk wrapped around you, until you come on it, until you _ruin_ it. Like you’ve ruined me.”

_Gods_. Geralt staggered back a step, fisting a hand in his own hair. _He_ was the one who had ruined it. His runaway mouth had ruined everything. Jaskier couldn’t possibly want to travel with him now, knowing that his companion would always be lusting after him like a slavering beast.

“Geralt,” Jaskier began, but Geralt held up a hand in warning.

“No more questions,” he gritted out, half-begging. “That’s what triggers it, I think.”

Jaskier stepped closer, reaching out. Geralt flinched, but Jaskier’s hand cupped his cheek gently, forcing him to look into those painfully blue eyes.

“Just one more, I promise,” the bard said with a trembling smile. Geralt swallowed. “After what you’ve just said, I have to know, and I’m not above using this curse to my advantage.”

Geralt closed his eyes, bracing himself for any embarrassing or awful piece of information Jaskier wanted.

But what he asked was so much worse that Geralt even knew to prepare for.

“Do you love me?”

“ _Yes_.” The word ripped out of Geralt’s throat with such force it left an ache behind. His eyes flew open, unable to resist the sight of his beautiful bard so close, especially if it was to be for the last time. “Yes, Jaskier, I love you, I love you so much. I love everything about you, I love your voice and your hands and your stupid jokes and I love how much of an asshole you are. I love that you never smell like fear when you look at me, and that you punch people twice your size because they’ve insulted me. I love that you dress like a fucking peacock even though you know your pretty clothes are just going to get covered in mud and monster blood. I love you more I ever knew I could love anything, more than I’ve ever loved anyone in my life. I—”

Jaskier slid his fingers over Geralt’s lips, silencing him more effectively than any effort of Geralt’s own will had accomplished. “It’s all right, shh,” he said soothingly. “That’s enough. I’m sorry.”

He slid his hand around the back of Geralt’s neck, tugging him forward until he could press their foreheads together.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, barely a whisper. “I shouldn’t have made you tell me that way, but I had to know.”

“Why?” Geralt demanded, his voice breaking. His throat was tight, his eyes burning oddly. Geralt hadn’t cried since he was a child, but he thought he might be about to now.

Jaskier brought his other hand up, so he was cradling Geralt’s neck in his warm palms.

“Because if all you felt was lust, I could never have done this.”

And he tilted his chin up and pressed their mouths together. For a moment, Geralt was too stunned to respond. Jaskier started to pull away. That was when Geralt’s brain caught up, and he surged forward, capturing the bard’s lips with his own, licking at his top lip, coaxing his tongue into Geralt’s mouth, nibbling at his bottom lip, pulling back to press soft kisses to Jaskier’s jaw when the human needed to breathe. He skimmed his hands over the silk draped on Jaskier’s hipbones, almost afraid to touch the fine fabric with his big, calloused hands.

“I love you,” Jaskier gasped, kissing Geralt’s cheeks, nose, chin, temples. “I love you, Geralt.”

Geralt pulled back at that, staring at him. At his pink cheeks and blown eyes, at his kiss-swollen lips and rumpled chestnut hair, his half-open robe and tempting collarbones. He could hear Jaskier’s heart beating, fast and steady.

“Why?” he said, dumbfounded.

Jaskier paused. “What do you mean?”

“Why would you love me?”

Jaskier let out a little laugh. “Why _wouldn’t_ I love you?”

It was a rhetorical question, but the truth spell didn’t seem to care. “Because I’m a Witcher,” Geralt told him. “I’m covered in horrible scars. I’m a mutant who had all humanity burned out of me by the Trials. I’m always covered in monster guts and stinking of blood and entrails. I’m really no better than the monsters I hunt, but I still crave you even though I don’t deserve you. I’m ugly and monstrous and I ask too much—”

Jaskier looked as though he might cry as he shushed Geralt once again.

“Oh, my dear Witcher,” he whispered thickly. “Not one of the things you’ve just said is true.”

Geralt’s brow furrowed. “What part of truth spell do you not understand—”

“You _believe_ that it’s true,” Jaskier said fiercely. “And it breaks my heart, because it _isn’t_. You are covered in beautiful scars, each one of them proof that you’re a survivor. You have been given certain mutations that have given you abilities that help you do your job, but you still have a human heart and you are one of the most human people I have ever met. You…well, you do sometimes smell of monster guts, that’s true, but most of the time you smell like leather and woodsmoke and horse, and it’s quite nice. You are not just better than monsters, Geralt, you’re better than most humans, too. You have more kindness and compassion in you than any of the people who have called you terrible names and chased you out of town, and you deserve so much more than just me.” He stroked his hand over Geralt’s cheekbone with a softness that bordered on reverence. He caught Geralt’s gaze and held it as he said his next words, speaking with extra care, as if he wanted to be sure that the Witcher didn’t miss a syllable. “You, Geralt of Rivia, are the most beautiful man I have ever seen, and you are not a monster, and you should demand more than you ever do. And I love you.”

Geralt couldn’t have spoken even if he wanted to, could only stare.

“Don’t look so surprised,” Jaskier said, trying to make his voice tart. “I’ve wanted you since Posada, and I’ve adored you almost as long. Do you think ‘don’t keep a man with bread in his pants waiting’ is how I introduce myself to everyone?”

Geralt grinned a little. “Well, with you, it’s hard to rule out,” he muttered, quite truthfully.

Jaskier smacked his arm. “Just for that, I might choose not to suck your cock tonight.”

The image flashed through Geralt’s mind, of Jaskier on his knees, that pretty mouth wrapped around him, those blue eyes looking up at him. “ _Gods_.”

“I can tell you like the sound of that, so behave yourself,” Jaskier teased.

Geralt raised an eyebrow, ecstasy coursing through his veins. Surely this was some kind of magic-induced fever dream.

“Hmm,” he hummed. In one swift move, he got his hands under Jaskier’s thighs and lifted him up, relishing the way the bard’s arms flew around his neck, the breathless yelp that went into his ear, the clamp of strong legs around his hips.

“Yes, yes,” Jaskier agreed in a slightly high-pitched voice. “This is definitely better. Well done, Geralt.”

The press of Jaskier all down his front was delicious, especially the needy rock of his hips into Geralt’s, but still he paused there and buried his face into the crook of Jaskier’s throat, breathing in that light, warm scent that meant Jaskier and happiness and home.

“You smell good,” Geralt mumbled into his skin, nuzzling. “Wish it was all I ever smelled.”

Jaskier stilled, one hand coming up to card through his Witcher’s hair. “Geralt, is the curse getting worse? I didn’t ask you a question.”

“No.” Geralt pulled his head back to meet Jaskier’s concerned gaze. “Just felt like telling you.”

The smile that broke across Jaskier’s face was soft, tender, and so loving that it made Geralt’s ribs hurt. “Oh, darling,” he whispered, and the endearment crashed over Geralt like a wave. “Take me to bed, please.”

If this was a dream, Geralt thought he could reconcile himself to never waking up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering adding another chapter to this, maybe with Actual Sex and possibly an explanation of how they eventually get the curse off because I think we can all agree that Geralt walking around answering every question honestly, while hilarious, would be a Disaster.  
> (ex. Innkeep: How dare you come among us good folk, Witcher? This is an good place, and people expect not to be confronted by such monstrous sights! What makes you think you'll be welcomed here?  
> Geralt: I didn't really think I would be welcomed, because you piss-stain villagers are all the same: perfectly happy to let me go and fight the monster that plagues you for the cheating pittance you try to pay, but you don't want to give me a bed or food because that might mean confronting the reality of the darkness out in the world, or, gods forbid, acknowledging that just because I'm stronger than you it doesn't mean I'm going to use my strength against you, the way you would abuse strength if you had it.  
> Jaskier: HELL YEAH YOU TELL 'EM BABE TAKE THAT SOCIETY!)  
> Well, that got away from me. Anyway, if you have ideas for sex or plot for a second chapter, let me know in the comments.  
> Come hang out with me, @artemisthehuntress on Tumblr!  
> Title from “The Horror and the Wild” By The Amazing Devil, Joey Batey’s band!  
> EDIT: Second Chapter full of porn now available!


	2. Every Word, Every Chord, and Every Screen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As promised, folks, now we get down to the smut! But first Jaskier is going to freak out--he insisted, and it was his turn. Also, this is once again incredibly Soft(TM) somehow. I've given up trying to rein it in.

Jaskier was fairly sure he was drunk. Very, very, very drunk. Possibly drunker than any human being had ever been before.

So drunk that he couldn’t remember drinking more than two glasses of a very fine wine.

Or maybe someone had slipped some sort of hallucinogenic potion into his glass when he wasn’t looking?

Because this couldn’t be real.

He couldn’t be wrapped around Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, his Witcher, being kissed to within an inch of his life.

And yet, that was still more believable than the idea that Geralt had just confessed, under a truth spell, his love for Jaskier.

So. He had to be drunk.

He had been in love with Geralt for almost as long as they’d known each other. He’d wanted him from the moment he saw his hulking, brooding figure sitting uncomfortably in the farthest corner of a dingy little tavern, and four months later, Geralt had been refused rooms at the local inn of the town requesting his services, and instead of fighting it, he had quietly tucked away his coin purse and headed toward the door, no doubt planning to head to the forest to make camp.

Jaskier had seen red, his whole chest clenching tight. He’d seized Geralt’s arm, slammed his own fist down on the bar of the tavern/inn, and positively growled, “We’ll take a room for the night.”

“As I’ve told the Witcher there—” the proprietor started to say, but Jaskier didn’t let him finish.

“Oh, I heard you,” he said, projecting his voice so that every single patron in the crowded tavern turned to look. “I heard you tell the man whom you have begged for help against the monster _killing your children_ , that he’s not welcome here.”

The innkeeper was starting to look vaguely uncomfortable. “A Witcher’s hardly better than a monster himself—”

“Ha!” Jaskier half-shouted. “If he was no better than a monster, you wouldn’t be asking him to kill your actual monster. It’s a very simple equation, but clearly the education in this village leaves a lot to be desired.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt growled under his breath. “Leave off.”

“I will _not_!” Jaskier leaned across the bar, getting in the innkeeper’s face and baring his teeth. “You have two choices, my _very_ good sir. You can give us accommodation for the night, including a meal and a bath, or Geralt and I can leave this shithole of a town behind us, monster and all.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt hissed.

Jaskier ignored him. “Your choice.”

The innkeeper ground his teeth, and eventually managed to spit, “Third room on the left, then. _Sir_.”

Jaskier had snatched the key from his hand and practically dragged Geralt up the stairs.

He’d slammed the room’s door behind them and thrown his bag down, already ranting. “The nerve! What kind of pretentious, bigoted, ignorant…How dare they! How dare they treat you like some—some—”

“Animal,” Geralt suggested, and Jaskier turned to find the Witcher staring at him, looking dumbfounded. As though no one had ever defended his humanity before.

Jaskier’s heart had cracked right down the middle, and the Witcher had taken up permanent residence in the space between the halves.

He had known better than to say anything. His Witcher was the precise opposite of emotionally aware, and treated all of Jaskier’s overtures of affection with suspicion and confusion. Even when he’d grown accustomed to the bard’s general…Jaskier-ness…he’d never shown any sign of returning his feelings.

Jaskier had been pining for years, and now, suddenly, Geralt loved him back?

That couldn’t be right.

He tore his throat away from Geralt’s warm, tingling, seeking kisses and demanded, “Are you sure it’s a truth curse?”

Geralt blinked at him, clearly disoriented by the sudden interruption. “Pretty sure. What?”

“It’s a truth curse,” he said again. “You’re sure. It’s not a, a love curse.”

“Jaskier, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“You’re not in love with me. I’ve been flirting with you for years and you’ve never once responded!”

Geralt rolled his eyes. “You flirt with everything that moves, bard, how was I supposed to know you meant it with me?”

That…was a fair point. Except— “Geralt, you’re the only one I’ve been flirting with for a solid decade,” he pointed out. “The only one I’ve been travelling with for a decade. I could be a professor at Oxenfurt, or a well-paid and well-fed court bard at any court on the Continent. And yet, I’ve been sleeping on the ground, eating charred rabbit, and getting doused in monster guts every other week.”

“You like travelling.”

“Well, yes, I do, but I wouldn’t do it with just anyone, darling. But that’s not the point! The point isn’t how I feel, it’s how you feel! It’s a truth spell. And you’re sure! Say yes or no!” It was becoming increasingly difficult to avoid outright questions.

Geralt rolled his eyes and set Jaskier back on his feet. “I’m fairly sure, yes, but if you’re that worried, ask me something. Something unrelated to my…feelings for you. Something you know the answer to. I’ll try to lie.”

Jaskier frowned, thinking. “Um. What’s your favorite color?”

“Blue,” Geralt said at once, and then frowned at himself. “I didn’t even think I had a favorite color.”

“You always smile when I wear my blue doublet set,” Jaskier told him absently.

Geralt cleared his throat. “It brings out your eyes,” he muttered, and Jaskier’s heart melted.

“Gods, stop doing that,” he said under his breath, trying to think of another question. “Where do you go in the winters? Try to lie!”

Geralt clenched his jaw and his fists, clearly trying to hold back. “Nilfg—Kaer Morhen,” he said, the words ripping out of him. “Are you satisfied?”

“I don’t know,” Jaskier groaned.

Geralt seized him by the hips, yanking the bard up against his chest. “Jaskier, I very clearly remember having these feelings for the last ten years. It’s a truth spell. I love you. Can we fuck now.” It wasn’t even a question anymore, his growling flattening out the words.

“Well—Yes, I want to—but if you’re under a truth spell, shouldn’t we be trying to break it?”

Geralt looked like he was no longer sure whether he wanted to kiss Jaskier or hit him. “It’ll probably wear off in a day or two. And if it doesn’t, we can seek out a mage.”

“Are you sure?” Jaskier insisted.

Geralt picked him up and threw him onto the bed, and Jaskier felt his half-softened cock jerk again at the manhandling. “ _Yes_ , Jaskier, I’m sure.”

“Oh.” Jaskier swallowed hard.

“Okay?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier nodded so hard he worried his head would fall off. “Yes, yes, absolutely, _ohhh_ , sweet Melitele—”

Geralt had seized his ankles and dragged him forward to sit on the edge of the bed, and had immediately buried his face in Jaskier’s throat.

His mouth was like a brand, searing Jaskier with the heat of his lips, his tongue, his _teeth_ , and all the bard could do was tangle a hand in soft white hair and hang on.

Geralt slowly migrated down, nosing through the hair on his chest, licking and biting at his nipples until Jaskier was arching into him. He kissed his way down Jaskier’s stomach, making Jaskier’s muscles jump to his touch.

And then he encountered the belt holding the robe together. The Witcher tilted his head up, his golden eyes alight with hunger, and slid to his knees. Jaskier moaned helplessly, and Geralt smirked at him, swooped down, and licked a stripe up the silk clinging to his erection.

The slide of silk against his sensitive head was delicious, but the damp heat of his Witcher’s tongue seeping through it was indescribable. Gods, how badly he wanted that tongue on his skin.

“Please, darling,” he whispered, tightening his hand in Geralt’s hair.

Geralt grunted, eyelids fluttering in pleasure, and wrapped his lips around the head of Jaskier’s cock.

“Oh, gods,” Jaskier gasped, throwing his head back. Geralt hummed, tongue working against his shaft as he slid, down, down, _down_ , a wet, hot slide that went on and on until he was nudging at the back of Geralt’s throat and Geralt’s nose was pressed against the blue silk over his belly.

Jaskier was babbling. “Oh, gods, oh, darling, your mouth is a treasure, gods, you’re so beautiful, Geralt my love, oh, yes, yes, yes…”

Geralt moaned at the endearments, vibrations almost too much as he slid up and then back down, and when Jaskier managed to roll his head forward again, the Witcher’s eyes were closed in bliss. And even though it had barely started, Jaskier felt his balls draw tight and tugged on Geralt’s hair in warning. “I’m going to—I’m—”

Geralt gave a noise of dissatisfaction and pulled off. Jaskier cried out in wordless distress, trying to pull him back down.

“No,” Geralt growled. “Not yet.”

And with that, he planted a hand on Jaskier’s chest, pushed him down onto his back, and threw the bard’s legs over his own broad shoulders.

Jaskier had no time to ask questions, because Geralt’s hands, those big, calloused hands that Jaskier had been fantasizing about every day for ten years, were sliding slowly, reverently, up his thighs, pushing aside the robe. As the silk was parted, cool air brushed over Jaskier’s cock, and then one of those hands wrapped around him, and squeezed just this side of too hard, and Jaskier wailed.

He pumped him once, twice, and then let him go, once again leaving him hanging on the edge of orgasm but unable to come. Jaskier let out a dry sob in frustration, but it got choked off in a scream as Geralt leaned down and licked up the crack of his ass, lapping intently at his hole.

“Geralt…gods…your tongue…”

“No ballads about this,” Geralt warned, amusement in his voice. His fingers dug with pleasant force into the meat of Jaskier’s ass.

Jaskier laughed breathlessly. “Just—oh!—just for the brothels,” he promised.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt growled, and plunged his tongue into Jaskier.

Jaskier’s back bowed, his mouth falling open in a silent scream. Geralt set to his task with enthusiasm, ringing moans and sobs and strings of breathless encouragement from his bard as his lips and tongue and teeth teased at his rim.

Jaskier could hardly breathe, flames licking up his spine, feeling like he was going to melt with the pleasure of it. _And just think,_ whispered a sly voice in his brain, _you haven’t even had his cock yet_.

Jaskier moaned loudly at the thought and clenched his hands where they were still buried in Geralt’s hair. ‘’Darling. Gorgeous. Dear heart. Please…please… _please_ …”

“Please what?” Geralt rumbled. He sank his teeth into the meat of Jaskier’s thigh, a shock of pleasure-pain that made it impossible to think. “Tell me.”

Struggling past the haze of lust, Jaskier forced his usually-gifted tongue to form words. “Fuck me, please, fuck—”

Geralt sank one thick finger inside him, spit slicking the way just enough to let it sink in easily, but not enough to completely alleviate the sweet burn.

“More,” Jaskier demanded. He was burning, dying with need. “ _More_ , Geralt!”

“Shh,” Geralt soothed, pressing soft kisses to Jaskier’s thighs as he drew his finger out and then plunged it back in. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, I’ll take care of you.”

Jaskier gasped at the endearment, rough and sweet, falling from his gruff Witcher’s unpracticed lips. He was a bard, he made his living on pretty words and melodies, but none of them compared to this, his soft-spoken Witcher’s adoration spoken aloud.

And then, suddenly, there was oil, and Geralt was pressing a second finger in alongside the first and scissoring them, stretching him open, and Jaskier had no thoughts to spare for mysteriously appearing oil.

It was too soon and not fast enough, and Jaskier rolled his hips down, fucking himself on Geralt’s fingers.

“Your mouth, your hands—I can feel your sword callouses inside me, darling, is there any part of you that’s not perfect, no, don’t answer that, don’t ruin this with your abysmal self-esteem.” He scrabbled at Geralt’s shoulders, yanking at him blindly until the Witcher acquiesced and rose from his kneeling position to lean over his bard, and they were chest to chest. Geralt’s face was soft and vulnerable, though his rhythm didn’t falter, and he crooked his fingers with deadly precision against Jaskier’s prostate, wrenching needy cries from him with every thrust. Jaskier tucked a stray lock of white hair behind his ear. “Don’t worry— _ah_ —dear heart, we have a— _gods, love, harder_ —a lifetime to work on that together.”

Geralt’s thrusts did falter at that. “Together,” he repeated softly, as if tasting the word on his tongue for the first time. As if it was an option he’d never allowed himself to consider.

Jaskier cupped his face, smiling. “Together,” he promised. And then, since Geralt still looked a little shocked, and his fingers had slipped out of Jaskier altogether, leaving him horribly empty, Jaskier grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him fully up onto the bed until he was flat on his back and Jaskier could straddle his hips.

Geralt blinked up at him, looking somewhat wrongfooted. But his cock was hard, and, Jaskier thought as he stroked his fingers up the shaft, _beautiful_. He’d gotten glimpses over the years, of course, but never while Geralt was hard. And now he was long and thick and flushed dark against the white curls at the base, and as Jaskier gazed fixedly at him, a pearl of precum seeped from his slit and Jaskier couldn’t resist catching it on his thumb and bringing it to his lips.

Geralt groaned like it was being punched out of him his pupils blown wide with lust.

Jaskier grinned, dragging a hand across Geralt’s chest.

“Oh, yes,” he purred, letting his eyes feast. “I like this view.”

Geralt had put on some weight since they’d begun travelling together, since Jaskier’s songs and presence had made him more welcome in taverns and inns, and his chest was deliciously thick as Jaskier got his hands on it and squeezed.

Geralt let out a startled moan, as if he hadn’t expected that to feel good, and rubbed his hands up Jaskier’s thighs. “Stop teasing,” he growled. He’d growled a lot, often at Jaskier, and it had always turned him on.

With a shiver of pure want, he got his hand on Geralt’s cock again, rose up on his knees, and sank down until the head of Geralt’s cock was pressed against his rim. For a moment, he stayed there, suspended, so close to what he’d wanted all these years, and just looked into Geralt’s eyes, thin rings of gold around wide, round pupils.

Jaskier leaned forward, pressing his forehead to Geralt’s, and rocked his hips back, taking half of Geralt’s cock in one smooth slide that seemed to drag on forever, every inch of his insides stretched and stroked and sending sparks through his entire body.

He had to stop, panting against Geralt’s cheekbone.

“Gods, gods, feels so _good_ , so thick and good inside me,” he gasped roughly. “You’re going to fill me so perfectly, aren’t you, darling?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Geralt mumbled from where he was nosing and mouthing at the hinge of Jaskier’s jaw, drawing in enormous, shaky breaths against his skin. His fingers tightened on Jaskier’s legs, so tight they might leave bruises.

The thought was enough to have Jaskier rocking down again, until his ass was pressing against Geralt’s hipbones and he was so, so full.

They moaned in tandem.

He wasn’t drunk, actually, he suddenly realized. He had fantasized about fucking Geralt, being fucked by Geralt, in every possible position, hundreds or thousands of times over the years. He had dreamed and imagined and not even his wildest, most ale-soaked dreams could compare to the reality of it. The stretch, the burn, the fullness…but more than any of that were the fine tremors wracking Geralt’s body, the harsh, desperate puffs of air hot and wet over his ear, the scratch of stubble against his throat, the way Geralt’s fingers were digging bruises that he knew he would cherish tomorrow into his hips.

Jaskier clenched and relaxed around Geralt just to hear the broken, stuttering moan, feel the spasm of his hands.

As soon as he’d adjusted, Jaskier lifted himself up enough that he could look into Geralt’s face as he raised his hips up and slowly lowered them again.

“Fill me so well, dear heart,” he breathed, eyes fluttering shut as he started to set a painfully slow rhythm.

Geralt’s hands finally released his thighs and skated up his back, palming his shoulder blades through the silk that still clung to him.

Jaskier sped up, his head falling back as the tip of Geralt’s cock caught his prostate on the downstroke and pleasure rolled over him in waves that broke and crashed too quickly for him to catch his breath.

Geralt’s fingers slid up, petting through Jaskier’s hair with a gentleness that most people would think beyond the rough and scarred Witcher.

“I love you,” Geralt said, guiding Jaskier’s head down so he could trail his lips across his face.

Jaskier caught his lips in a messy kiss that was more breath and saliva than technique, but was still the best thing that had ever happened to him.

“Love you,” Geralt said again, mumbling it against the hollow of Jaskier’s cheek as though he couldn’t keep it inside. “Love you. Love you. Love you. Love y—”

Jaskier gave a particularly wicked twist of his hips, and Geralt’s voice dissolved in a wrecked cry as his body jerked and he came, hot and thick and real real real, inside of Jaskier, who barely had time to wrap his hand around his own cock before he was coming too, right across his Witcher’s chest.

Geralt had gone limp, and he looked dazed in a way that was utterly endearing.

Jaskier couldn’t help leaning forward to kiss him again. “I love you, too,” he whispered against his lips.

They stayed like that for a minute more, catching their breath, but Jaskier was never one to leave a bedpartner in disarry, so he forced his watery legs to carry him to the washbasin. He turned back, cloth in hand, only to see Geralt drawing his fingers through Jaskier’s spend and sucking it into his mouth. Despite having just come, Jaskier’s cock gave a feeble twitch and he groaned out loud.

“Are you trying to kill me, love?” he demanded teasingly as he climbed back into the bed and cleaned his come from Geralt’s skin with soft strokes of the cloth.

“Never,” Geralt rumbled, sounding sleepy and satisfied. He took the dirty cloth from Jaskier’s hands and tossed it over the side of the bed. Then, he grabbed Jaskier and hauled him down until they were lying thoroughly entangled, Geralt’s chest to Jaskier’s back.

Jaskier felt his Witcher take a long, satisfied breath. “What do I smell like?” he asked, tracing nonsense patterns on Geralt’s forearm around his waist.

“You. Me. Sex. Happiness.” Geralt took another deep breath and tucked his face into the crook of Jaskier’s neck. “S’good.”

With Geralt’s warmth around him and the recent orgasm making him languid, Jaskier found himself yawning. “Sh—should we look for a cure tomorrow?” he managed to ask.

Geralt hummed a negative. “It’ll wear off,” he said again. “And I don’t mind telling the truth for a few days.”

“You don’t?” Jaskier twisted his head around, somewhat surprised. For his reticent, monosyllabic Witcher, he would have thought having truth ripped from his lips would be something akin to a nightmare.

Geralt shook his head, face unguarded, a soft smile on his lips. Had Jaskier ever seen him so content? So happy?

“We’ll stick to the woods,” the Witcher mumbled, eyes drifting closed. “It’s fine. If it’s you.”

Geralt’s breathing dropped into the slow, even pattern of deep, dreamless sleep.

But Jaskier lifted his Witcher’s lax hand anyway and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm like a talisman.

“My thoughts exactly, darling,” he whispered into the skin. After all, hadn’t it been so these last ten years? Hadn’t he followed where Geralt had led with no care to the destination? Hadn’t he borne insult and jest from those who didn’t understand his companionship with a Witcher? Hadn’t he ached with love every moment, but stayed anyway, to be his friend?

“Everything's fine,” he told his sleeping Witcher, another yawn cracking his jaw. “If it’s you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all of those lovely folks who left comments on the first chapter encouraging me to put my mind back in the gutter! You are all wonderful people, and without you, this thing, in its plotless, smutty glory, might never have gotten finished. Y'all are the best!  
> Come hang out with me or send me Geraskier prompts on Tumblr @artemisthehuntress!


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